


Catch me when I fall

by Akikofuma



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, BDSM, BDSM done right, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, D/s, Dom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Enthusiastic Consent, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Praise Kink, Rimming, Spanking, Sub Drop, Sub Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, smutt&fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28465344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akikofuma/pseuds/Akikofuma
Summary: “You’re alright, sweet thing. You trust me, don’t you?” he asks softly, running his fingers through brown locks, scraping his nails against his poet’s scalp.“I do,” Jaskier agreed quietly, curled into a little ball in the embrace of the Witcher's arms, face tucked away against Geralt’s neck. “‘course I do.”“Thank you, for that trust,” Geralt hums, pressing a kiss into the bard’s hair. “Then you trust me to decide if you’ve been good, don’t you?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 20
Kudos: 329





	Catch me when I fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Assthorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Assthorn/gifts).



Geralt looks over the pair of breeches in his hand, carefully inspecting the tear he’d just fixed up; golden eyes inspecting every stitch. Satisfied, he lays the garment onto the bed beside him, selecting a doublet of the bards to work on next.

He’s spent the majority of the evening like this; going over their clothes, picking out those that need mending. Between his legs, completely ignored, his bard kneels for him; the floor beneath him softened by a pillow, the Witcher's soft cock held warm and safe within the poet's mouth. 

Geralt is proud of his boy, though he holds off on vocalizing the sentiment just yet. This isn’t the time for praise; Jaskier’s face is relaxed, eyes half shut, hazy. His sweet troubadour is floating, content to be a sheath for Geralt’s cock, hard or not. It makes something flutter in the Witcher’s chest, warm and content. 

They’d been playing like this for years now, as soon as Geralt had discovered a rather simple pattern — . Jaskier craved to let go, to please and submit, and afterwards, be showered in praise and affection. The worst of his antics could be warded off by regular sessions, and since they’d started this, the times Jaskier landed them in serious trouble could be counted on one hand. Had he known a good spanking every now and then was all it took to reign in his wayward bard, Geralt would have employed this tactic long before they started fucking. 

The doublet in his hands didn’t need much attention, and Geralt decides it will be the last item he works on; too much time on his knees would leave Jaskier sore, and come the morning, rather cranky. Geralt has no desire to spend the day listening to the sounds of pain coming from his poet. Tearing off the thread he’d used to stitch the doublet back to perfection with his teeth, Geralt deems them ready to continue their session. 

“Jaskier,” he rumbles, gently tapping the bard's cheek. When the poet does not immediately react, Geralt adds a firm squeeze to a strong yaw. “Now, little one. Need to put things away.” 

Slowly, Jaskiers mouth opens, releasing the cock he’d been keeping safe. Hazy blue eyes look upwards to focus on the Witchers face. Geralt can’t help but offer an affection smile; his little lark, blissed out and content his favorite sight in this dark, dreery world. 

He stands, brushing the tips of his fingers along brown locks of hair; a silent praise his bard knows well. It perks Jaskier up a bit, chest puffing up as he preens.  _ Adorable _ , Geralt thinks to himself, as he stores away their clothes and sewing supplies. 

Bare as he already is, there’s no need for further undressing; Jaskier being equally bare, just as Geralt had requested. His boy loved being dressed in the finest of silks, the most radiant of colors, but this — this is how Geralt preferes him. Naked as the day he was born, showing off all of his natural beauty. Toned legs, trim waist and slim hips. Jaskier was a sight to behold, one that Geralt marveled at each time he was presented with it. 

Settling back to sit on the bed’s edge, Geralt pats his thigh, and immediately Jaskier is scrambling to comply, straddling the Witcher’s thick thighs, arms coming around Geralt’s neck and holding tight. 

“Been a good boy,” Geralt rumbles, settling his hands at the bard's waist. “My sweet lark. Think you deserve a reward, don’t you?” 

“Whatever you want,” Jaskier replies breathily; the troubadours cock is hard, pre-come pearling at the tip, colored a deep red. Geralt had made him wait. He is certainly uncomfortable by now, and  _ still _ , all his little lark wants is to please. Pride radiates in the Witcher’s chest, pulling another pleased rumble from deep within. 

“I think you deserve a treat, sweetheart,” he decides, stealing a kiss from the bard’s lush lips. “And I think I know just the thing.” 

Jaskier loves all kinds of sex, but the one sure way to get his little lark to lose his mind is quite simple. 

“Hands and knees, little lark,” Geralt hums, his own cock quickly hardening at the feast laid out before him. His bard has no shame, never has; he’s shaking with anticipation, glancing at Geralt over his shoulder, blue eyes wide. He knows exactly where this is going. 

Geralt takes his sweet time moving himself into position; half the fun is the anticipation he can see thrumming in Jaskiers body, wanting desperately to beg, to demand,  _ anything-  _ but remaining silent, because he’s a good boy, and good boys don’t talk unless they’re given permission. 

The Witcher allows himself a moment to admire his bard, to run large hands along the troubadours back, his sides; the smooth skin is simply too much to resist. Jaskier is getting impatient, wiggles his hips, only to earn himself a harsh slap to his rear.

“None of that now,” Geralt growls warningly, and his boy quickly stills. “Good. Make as much noise as you like, little lark; we both know you can’t keep quiet. But if you move, you’ll be punished. Do you understand?” 

_ Are you still alright with this?  _

“I understand,” Jaskier replies, spreading his legs just a bit wider. Technically it's moving, but Geralt decides to let this one go; after all, the wider his bard spreads his legs, the more access he’s given. 

“Good boy,” Geralt hums, taking hold of his lark's buttocks, pulling them apart to reveal a tight, pink little hole. His mouth waters at the sight, but he restrains himself; takes a moment to simply look, to appreciate. Brushes a calloused thumb across the wrinkled skin, pulling a soft gasp out of Jaskier. Oh, the sounds he’d soon be making..

Finding his own patience slowly dwindling, Geralt finally has mercy on his lark. He bends down to place his lips against the puckered ring of muscles, giving it a brief kiss. Already, Jaskier is trembling, giving a moan of pleasure. Nothing gets his boy going quite like getting thoroughly eaten out. So Geralt commits himself to the task; goes from gentle kisses to gentle probing with his tongue, teasing at first. 

Jaskier quickly loses himself, groaning and gasping at the feeling of a talented tongue against his most vulnerable spot. The muscles ease quickly, accustomed to this kind of touch; they fuck so often, it hardly takes any work to get his bard to open up for him, yet somehow still tight enough to have Geralt seeing stars once he’s sheathed his cock inside. 

He’s fucking Jaskier with his tongue now, much like he would be with his cock in just a few minutes, gorging himself on the taste and sound of his lark when- Jaskier’s hips buck, a whimpering moan escaping him before he freezes in place. Geralt pulls back, sighing softly. 

They both know what comes next. 

“Across my lap, boy,” Geralt huffs, once he’s seated himself at the bed’s edge once more. Jaskier complies quickly, but the shiver of anxiety does not go unnoticed. “You’re alright. I’m not mad, sweet lark. But you broke the rules, didn’t you? Hm?” 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier mewls, turning his head to glance at the Witcher. “‘m sorry, just felt so good, you’re always so good, I didn’t mean to!”

“I know,” the Witcher soothes, rubbing his hand along the bard’s back. “I know you didn’t. But we agreed to this; if you break the rules, you get punished, didn’t we?” 

It’s a clear opening for his lark to use his word, and end this now. It wouldn’t be the first time; sometimes it’s just too much to handle, Jaskier feeling too vulnerable to endure. Other times, his lark craves the discipline, will misbehave on purpose to get his rear tanned until its bright red. Either way, Geralt will always comply with his needs. 

“Yes, we agreed,” Jaskier replies softly. “Please.”

“Good boy,” Geralt praises, resting his hand on a firm cheek. “I think twenty will remind you to keep to the rules, hm? Count for me, little lark. If you miss one, we start over. Understood?” 

“Understood,” comes the immediate reply. Geralt nods, satisfied, landing the first swat against the bard’s rump. 

“One,” Jaskier whimpers, obediently counting as they go on. Geralt varies the strikes in intensity and placement, and by the end, the pale skin is turned an angry red; tender enough to not enjoy sitting the next day, but not hard enough to bruise. He wanted his sweet lark to remember his punishment, but never truly suffer at his hands. 

“Twenty!” Jaskier shouts as the last swat falls on his abused backside, blue eyes watering as he waits for Geralt to decide his fate. If he was good, they’d continue on; if Geralt deemed him in need of more, they would remain as they were. 

“Good,” Geralt rumbles, quickly gathering his troubadour into his arms, settling him across his lap, gently rocking the bard. “You’re so good, my good boy, sweet little lark. Learned your lesson now, haven’t you?” 

“Yes,” Jaskier mewls, nuzzling into the Witcher’s chest, hiccuping a sob. “I learned, I promise.” 

“I know, little one. So good for me, always,” Geralt raps; his own cock is achingly hard by now. Jaskier is just too beautiful, calls to him in all the right ways like this; sweet and soft, and oh so willing to be whatever Geralt wants. It’s impossible to resist. “Took your punishment so well for me. Earned yourself another reward, little lark.” 

_ Do you want to keep going? _

“Mh,” Jaskier sniffles, giving a small nod before nuzzling against the Witcher's neck. Permission granted to continue, Geralt lays the bard out on his back. He gives his troubadour a once over, taking in his flushed cheeks, those baby blues that gaze upon him with such love, with implicent, absolute trust. It’s that look that gets to Geralt the most; so many years spent being distrusted and judged for being what he was, hated and singled out for his golden eyes and white hair. Jaskier has never treated him that way, had never feared or despised him. 

His bard is such a rare bird, such a gift. Geralt would never squander that gift again, like he had on the mountain. 

“Beautiful,” Geralt murmurs, trailing his hands along the bard's lean legs, thumbs brushing inward on his thighs. “So beautiful, my sweet songbird.” 

Jaskier squirms, makes a soft sound. He’s a glutton for praise, and Geralt is happy to cater to that need. Could spend hours exploring the body he knows so well, whispering how beautiful Jaskier is, how wonderful, how awe inspiring, into his skin. 

“Geralt,” said bard keens; his cock is an angry red, almost purple at the head. Seed is dripping readily from the small slit, twitching needily under the Witchers gaze. “Please.” 

“You’re right, songbird,” Geralt relents, lifting the bard's legs upwards, bending at the knees, and spreading wide. “You’ve been good. Just let go now, sweetness. No more rules.” 

Before the troubadour can even open his mouth to reply, Geralt bends down, swallowing the leaking cock whole. Jaskier, denied touch for so long now, almost screeches with the overwhelming pleasure suddenly bestowed upon him. It only takes a few bobs of his head before the poet arches with a cry, coming messily in the Witchers mouth. Geralt moans his pleasure at the taste, the added vibrations resulting in another spurt of come landing on his tongue. 

He swallows it all, happily so. Jaskier tastes salty, bitter, yet Geralt hasn’t found any taste he loves more. He straightens, watching his songbird come down from his peak, the pink flush of his cheeks now reaching down to the poet's chest as he pants.

“Perfect,” Geralt rumbles, unable to resist the urge to grind his cock against the V of his lark's hips, growling low at the pleasure the contact sparks. “You’re perfect, my good boy. Good little lark.” 

Lush lips pull into a soft, hazy smile at the praise; Jaskier is still in that floating headspace. High on the pleasure of his orgasm, on the praise; on taking his punishment well, and having pleased the man he loves. 

“Want to fuck you, little lark,” Geralt rasps, gaze lingering on the bards face as he speaks, watching for any signs of discomfort, of protest. Jaskier has his word for a reason, but Geralt likes to make sure. He inhales deeply, searching out any discomfort in his songbird’s scent, but finds none. “Want to push inside you so deep, you’ll feel me in your throat. Fill you with my seed till you’re leaking with it. Make you come again on my cock, until all you remember is my name. Would you like that?” 

_ Can you keep going? _

Jaskier doesn’t reply with words, but he spreads his legs wider, long-fingered hands coming to his cheeks to pull them apart, opening himself up under the Witcher's greedy eyes. 

“Words, little lark,” Geralt hums, though he cannot resist the invitation completely. He goes for the oil placed strategically under the pillow, pulling the stopper out with his teeth. Refusing to go further than that without verbal confirmation, he gives the bard’s sore ass a pinch, prompting him to answer.

“Please,” Jaskier sighs, arms spread over his head in a way he knows Geralt likes; opening his entire body for the wolf, all the soft, vulnerable spots that could kill him when injured. Another show of absolute trust that thrills Geralt more than he can describe. “Please fuck me, Geralt. My white wolf.” 

“Good,” Geralt rumbles, slicking himself up with a bit more urgency than usual. He’s been horny all day, had waited patiently for Jaskier to perform before they started their session, and he can’t fucking wait to to finally sheath himself in his songbirds tight channel. “Good boy. You can come whenever you want now, sweetheart.” 

Jaskier doesn’t need to be stretched with fingers, Geralt had sufficiently opened him up with his tongue; not to mention that his lark likes the burn of being just a bit underprepared for Geralt’s massive length. He sinks in slowly, inch by inch, thighs shaking with the strain of holding back; prepared or not, his cock is still substantial; he won’t risk hurting Jaskier, no matter how greedily he swallows him. Strong muscles flutter around his length, clench down, pull him inside with impatience. Jaskier is little more than a puddle of content pleasure by the time he’s finally settled all the way, keening and whimpering his pleasure into the air. 

“Still so fucking tight,” Geralt grunts, pulling back a single inch, thrusting back in hard. “Feel so good, little lark. Love being inside you, love filling you up like this. Always so good for me.” 

It isn’t easy to keep up a constant stream of praise as he fucks into the willing body beneath him, but Geralt gives it his best. Starts out with slow, hard thrusts aimed perfectly at his lark's prostate; it doesn’t take long before Jaskier is hard again, moaning and writhing against his Witcher. He reaches out for Geralt with a needy whine, and he quickly complies; leans forward just enough to allow the poet’s arms to wrap around his neck once more. The change in angle is perfect, exactly what Jaskier needed it seems; the wet heat around his cock almost strangling. It’s more than Geralt can take. 

He speeds up his thrusts, plows into Jaskier with all his strength; he’d been afraid for so long that he’d hurt his human if he let go. To his surprise, Jaskier could take a lot more than he’d thought. He basked in the bruises Geralt left on him, in the burn after a night spent on the Witcher’s thick cock. Now, Geralt knew he could let go. 

Time passes in a blur as he works himself towards his peak, breathing hard, sweat pearling above his eyebrows. Geralt barely manages to hold out long enough to feel the telltale clench and shudder of his songbird’s second climax of the night. It pulls him over the edge, growling low in his chest as he empties himself into his songbird's waiting channel. It seems to go on forever, possibly hours, though it was likely only a few minutes. Once his cock gives its last twitch, Geralt pulls out, as carefully as possible. 

He collapses next to the bard, gathers him into his arms and holds him close. Whispers into his ear all the things he loves to hear,  _ needs  _ to hear. Hold Jaskier until the bard’s breathing has evened out, no longer panting like he’d just run a marathon. He places a kiss against his sweaty forehead before slowly sitting up. 

“Hush, little lark,” he soothes at the distraught whine his songbird gives. “Need to get you cleaned up before bed, hm?” 

Jaskier gives a soft sound of protest, but Geralt won’t let himself be deterred. This part of caring for his lark is just as important as the part before; perhaps even more so. So Geralt stands, plants a kiss onto his bard’s lips, then moves towards the basin of water standing on a wooden table. He gathers a cloth from his belongings, along with a waterskin and a pouch of dried fruits. They had dinner, his lark didn’t really need food and would often refuse the offering; but Geralt offers it each time despite that. 

Cleaning his lark is a bit of a difficult task; his songbird is lax with pleasure and fatigue; would much rather curl up against Geralt and fall asleep surrounded by the Witchers strong arms. Geralt is patient with him; praises his lover as he wipes him clean, freeing him of any remaining seed. He might like the feeling of it now, especially inside of him, but in the morning, when it had grown dry and tacky, Jaskier would complain about it without fail. 

One task finished, Geralt immediately starts the next; opens the waterskin to hold it against his bards lips. Jaskier drinks ravenously; throat dry and raw from making all the beautiful sounds Geralt can’t get enough of. The offering of fruits is turned down with a small shake of the head, and satisfied he’s taken care of Jaskier, Geralt allows himself a drink of water before rejoining his lark.

He’s barely gotten under the blanket before Jaskier is on him, curling against his side,, head resting on the Witcher’s chest. His songbird likes to fall asleep to the sound of Geralt’s heart,; the odd, slow beating so unlike any humans. Geralt steals another kiss before allowing it; he can never get enough of kissing Jaskier, no matter how much he does it. With a sleepy sigh, Jaskier settles, and soon enough drifts off. 

Geralt spends a few more minutes to bask in the afterglow, fondly watching his songbird sleep. In the morning, he’d get them a good breakfast and apply some ointment to his rear, and they would continue on the Path. With a sigh of contentment, he closes his eyes, easily finding into a restful sleep with Jaskier by his side. 

  
  


* * *

It's the middle of the night when Geralt wakes, slightly disoriented, to a sound he cannot quite pin down. It takes a second before he notices that he’s alone in bed, the sheets beside him cold. Alarmed, the Witcher snaps awake, scanning the room for any sign of his bard. It doesn’t take long to find him.

Jaskier is huddled before the fire that’s almost gone out, naked and shaking from cold. Weeping, Geralt realised with a start. He tempers the urge to launch himself towards his lark, to grab him and drag him back into the warmth of his own body. He doesn’t want to further upset the poet, and being overbearing often did more harm than good in situations like this. He stands slowly, trying not to flinch as Jaskier startles and stills, his scent soured with sadness and fear. 

“Jaskier,” he rumbles quietly, joining his lark at the  hearth. He piles fresh wood into it, sets it alight with a whispered  _ igni _ , unable to deal with his little lark being cold on top of his distress. “What’s wrong little one?”

“‘m sorry,” Jaskier mutters, sniffling as tears leak from his eyes, trailing across his chest. “‘m sorry I broke the rules, I didn’t mean to-” 

“Songbird, you took your punishment for that,” Geralt replies evenly, settling onto the ground beside the poet. “You took it, and you took it well, sweet thing. I’ve forgiven you.”

“Still,” Jaskier mumbles weakly, “I should’ve been better for you. You do so much for me, give me everything, and I can’t even hold still for a little bit..” 

It’s happened a few times now, this kind of drop after they play. Geralt is grateful he now knows how to handle it. The first time had been a complete disaster, a memory Geralt would happily never revisit ever again, but often sneaks into his mind when he’s feeling down. 

“Songbird,” he starts slowly. “I’d like to hold you. Would that be alright?”

If Jaskier refuses, he will not push, but from experience, Geralt knows that skin to skin contact is the most effective way to sooth his little lark. The bard gives a shivering nod, and thus given permission, Geralt pulls him to sit in his lap. Rumbles soothingly as he simply gives them both time to feel each other's presence, to feel safe. Jaskier is cool to the touch, and Geralt hates knowing it had taken him enough time to wake for his little lark to grow so cold. 

“You’re alright, sweet thing. You trust me, don’t you?” he asks softly, running his fingers through brown locks, scraping his nails against his poet’s scalp. 

“I do,” Jaskier agreed quietly, curled into a little ball in the embrace of the Witcher's arms, face tucked away against Geralt’s neck. “‘course I do.” 

“Thank you, for that trust,” Geralt hums, pressing a kiss into the bard’s hair. “Then you trust me to decide if you’ve been good, don’t you?” 

“..Yes,” the troubadour reluctantly agrees. 

“Then believe me when I say this, love. You broke the rules, I know. But sweetheart, you took your punishment so beautifully. You were  _ so good _ for me, little one,” he rumbles, still gently rocking his lark, quickly continuing when Jaskier makes a sound of protest. “You were, you  _ are _ , good. My good boy. I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t believe it, sweet one.” 

“But I failed,” Jaskier whimpers, a fresh wave of tears trickling along his cheeks, swearing against the Witcher's neck. “Was supposed to hold still and I didn’t..” 

“We all fail sometimes, you know that little lark,” Geralt gentles. “You know I fuck up all the time. But you forgive me, and you give me a chance to do better whenever I do. You allow me to be good for you. Don’t you?” 

“Yes,” Jaskier reluctantly agrees once more. 

“And you still love me, and trust me, hm? Still think I’m good for you?” he continues. it’s odd to talk about himself in a kind light, much more accustomed to thinking of himself as a brute, a monster. A butcher. It’s taken years before he could begin to accept the kind things Jaskier said about him, but thanks to his lark’s persistence, Geralt can finally see himself as more. 

“You’ll always be good for me,” the bard hiccups, an unsteady hand coming to rest against the Witcher’s chest. “You’re perfect.” 

“Well, if I can fuck up and still be good and- perfect,” he’ll always struggle with that word, but he forces it out between his lips anyway. “Then so can you, little one. So please, hear me when I say this; you are perfect, and good. You did so well for me tonight. My good boy.” 

It earns him a weak mewl, a shivering sigh, and finally, Jaskier relaxes completely into his hold. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Geralt praises, rumbling the words into brown locks. “My sweet, perfect boy. Can you tell me, darling?” 

“‘m your good boy,” Jaskier echoes quietly, tears slowly ebbing away, drying against their skin. 

“You are,” Geralt breathes, reinforcing the sentiment once more. “Doing so good, sweet thing. I love you, more than I can say.”

“Love you too,” Jaskier says, his voice a bit surer, a bit steadier. “I love you, Geralt.” 

They sit in silence for a while, the fire crackling merrily beside them. He allows Jaskier to calm, to sit with the knowledge that he is loved and cared for; that he wouldn’t be abandoned. 

“Ready for bed, sweet one?” Geralt eventually rumbles; he’d sit here for however long it took to sooth his bard, but they both needed rest, especially Jaskier. “Feeling a bit better?” 

“Mmh,” Jaskier replies, already sounding sleepy. “Thirsty.” 

“I’ll get you something to drink once you’re settled,” Geralt replies, slowly getting to his feet, Jaskier held bridal style in his arms. He pads over to the bed, gently lowering the bard onto it. He retrieves their second waterskin quickly, eager to quell his bard's thirst, but unwilling to be apart for too long. Jaskier takes a few long sips before pulling back. 

They curl up together once more; Jaskier once more safe and sound in his arms. Exactly where he should be, for the rest of their life. 

“Love you,” Jaskier hums, half asleep. “Thank you.”

“I love you too, little one,” Geralt replies, his grasp on the bard tightening just a bit. “Sleep now, sweet lark. Let me keep you safe and warm.” 

“Mmfng,” Jaskier eloquently replies, earning a fond smile from the Witcher that went unseen. Sleeps soundly against Geralt's chest once more. 

With no need to resist the pull of sleep, the Witcher’s eyes fluttered shut. 

Together, they sleep, and dream of the adventures to come. 


End file.
